


The Case of the Christmas Crackers

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Auctions, Case Fic, Class Differences, Corporate Espionage, Diogenes Club, Gen, Holmes Brothers’ childhood, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV John Watson, Pastiche, Phantom Thieves - Freeform, Protectiveness, Snuffboxes, Young Love, competitions, safecracking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29193930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Breaking into safes is one thing. Stealing trinkets is another. But breaking into safes and leaving trinketsbehind?Lestrade has got his hands full with this mysterious case. Before it's all sorted out, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Mycroft Holmes will have been recruited as sleuths as well.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Mycroft Holmes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [comicArtistA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comicArtistA/gifts).



> ‘Sherlock Holmes story lost and found after years’ — Thanks for prompting this! It was a fun challenge for me.
> 
> Note: This story is connected to the original work "Thief of My Dreams," also part of this exchange. Each story stands alone, but if read together, this story comes first.

> _Faithful followers of these narratives sometimes ask me how many of Holmes’s cases I have written up but neglected to publish. If my fantasies of literary longevity come true, and any such followers remain more than one hundred years hence, when I have stipulated this tale may be released, I hope they will forgive me for keeping them in the dark so long._
> 
> _I have sometimes written up Holmes’s cases leaving out elements that could not be made public. However, I feel that doing so with this narrative would make for a tale that’s only a pale shade of the remarkable truth._
> 
> _I thank Mycroft Holmes and his family, and my beloved Sherlock, for agreeing that this tale might see the light of day in the far future._
> 
> _—JHW_

“Watson, you’ve followed my career for many years now. I expect you’ve picked up knowledge about crime along the way.”

I was pleasantly surprised. Sherlock Holmes was my loyal friend, that I knew, but he was very sparing in his praise for my intellect or knowledge. Yet here he was, assuming that I’d learned a great deal about crime from him.

“I suppose I have, old boy.”

“Yes, yes. Exactly.” Holmes sounded a tad impatient. “Doctor, do you know which crimes are the most difficult to solve?”

“Surely they would be the ones that are the most complex, with many threads running through them.”

“No, Watson. Those are the easiest to solve, outside of the bog standard ones we see written about in the Times every day. Only get hold of all the threads, and they invariably lead to a conclusion.”

“I suppose you’re right. Well, then, my dear Holmes, which crimes are the most difficult to solve?”

“Those committed by what I might call the gentleman criminal. A criminal whose motive for committing a crime is not passion, or greed, or power, but simply the satisfaction of doing a thing well.”

“Holmes! You make it sound as if these people commit crimes for the same reason that other people build ships in bottles!”

“The exact same reasons.”

“That’s horrifying!”

“In defense of the gentleman criminal,” Holmes went on, with a soothing note in his voice, “many have a code of honor that precludes their doing serious harm by practicing their hobby. But I do agree with you that it can be disturbing to be made aware of the societal rules people are willing to break in their pursuit of entertainment.” 

“Why are these criminals harder to catch, Holmes?” 

“Precisely because of the lack of a traditional motive,” he explained. “Think about it. When we seek to solve a crime, what do we look for?”

“People who disliked the victim, or who wanted something from him,” I said at once. “Or wanted to keep him away from something. Or wanted revenge upon him.”

“Precisely. I would personally put revenge into the same broad category as dislike. But how often do we consider that the crime might have been the work of a person practicing a hobby of crime? Hardly ever. And even if we do consider him, how do we identify him? He may know nothing of the victim, or know him only in the most tenuous way. He might be an opportunity, nothing more.”

“I say,” I said.

“Unless I am very much mistaken,” said my companion, “we are about to receive a visit from our inestimable Scotland Yard man, Inspector Lestrade.”

We listened as Mrs Hudson greeted the Inspector downstairs, and then we heard his stolid tread upon the stair. Holmes dropped his topic of conversation as abruptly as he had taken it up.

“My dear Inspector,” said Holmes, offering his hand. “How very good to see you. Do take your wet boots off, come sit by the fire, and have some of Mrs Hudson’s very fine tea. Watson will fetch you a cup. You look like you need some cheering after the morning you’ve had.”

“I’d appreciate a cup of tea, Mr Holmes, and make no mistake,” said Lestrade. He shed his boots as Holmes had suggested, and stretched his stockinged feet toward the fire, the mantlepiece wound round with Christmas garlands, wiggling his toes with pleasure. “But what do you know about the morning I’ve had?” 

“The Docks are an unpleasant place to be on a chill, rainy, December day,” said Holmes. “Especially when there’s murder afoot.”

Lestrade half-choked on his mouthful of tea. “I say, Holmes! How do you know of the murder at the docks? It’s not been in any of the papers yet, I made sure of it.”

“The streaks on your trousers were clearly made by salt water,” Holmes remarked. “And there’s the fishy odor clinging to you. Not that a normal nose would be able to discern it, I hasten to add,” he went on quickly, because Lestrade’s face had turned beet-red with embarrassment. “But my scent organs are more sensitive than most.”

“How did you know I was investigating a murder, Holmes?”

“It was a slight conjecture,” Holmes admitted. “The blood stain on your cuff could be from fish. But I judged that less likely, even though you were at the docks, than murder. It’s not the type of day that sees a police inspector haunting the docks for his dinner at ten o’clock in the morning.”

Lestrade looked at his shirt cuff and swore. “The wife will have my hide,” he muttered.

We drank our tea in silence for a while, and then Holmes remarked, “I am delighted to see you, Inspector, but I suspect this is not entirely a social call. Is there some point upon which you wish to consult me?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” the Inspector said, without raising his gaze from the fire. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr Holmes, that this case has me at my wit’s end.”

“Do tell me all the particulars, and do not leave anything out, however insignificant.”

“You won’t have read about it in the papers, Mr Holmes, but there’s been something of a rash of robberies recently.”

“I assume you refer to a significant increase in the number of safe-cracking crimes,” said Holmes, “starting in November of this year.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped. “Mr Holmes, however do you know that? We at Scotland Yard have kept it mum. It won’t do to have the public in a panic over their valuables.”

“And a foolish policy that is, indeed,” retorted Holmes. “For if you had informed the public, you would have had the opportunity to discover more of these crimes, and question more victims, and you would now have a great deal more evidence.”

 _“Mr_ Holmes!” cried Lestrade angrily, leaping to his feet. “If you knew of this crime wave, why did you not come to me with your information?”

Holmes dismissively waved his hand. “My dear Lestrade,” he said. “If I shared with Scotland Yard everything I know that you do not, you’d never have time to get any work done.”

Lestrade paced around the room, muttering in frustration. 

“Come, come,” said Holmes, a soothing note in his voice. “The sooner we get down to business, the sooner we solve it.”

“In November, a crime was reported,” said Lestrade, subsiding again into his chair. “The victim was a prominent man, one Judge Milbourne. And I don’t mind telling you, if he hadn’t been, he’d probably have been put away for a nutter. He came in saying his safe was broken into and an item had been taken — a valuable snuffbox. But that wasn’t the queer part. He said that the next day, his safe had been broken into again. Nothing was taken, but something had been left inside — _a different snuffbox, and one entirely strange to him!”_

Lestrade glared at Holmes as if he expected him to scoff, but Holmes merely steepled his fingers and said, “Do go on.”

“We took down a report and interviewed the household staff, but we were not able to find any leads. We filed the case. 

“Then several days later, another man of quality reported a crime to us. That in itself is unusual, you know, Mr Holmes. Most of the upper class would rather keep their crimes to themselves, even if they’re the victims, than risk involving the police, lest their names end up in the newspapers.”

“I am well aware,” Holmes told him.

“This time, the victim was one Lord Breckinridge, and the crime was yet another safe-cracking and burglary. Again, a snuffbox was taken, and something was left behind.” 

I glanced at my companion. His eyes had lit up. Angled toward the fire, he was rubbing his hands to warm them, but I could see the glee in his movements. He was captivated by what Lestrade was telling him.

“Mr Holmes, you’ll never guess what was left behind in Lord Breckenridge’s safe,” asserted Lestrade.

“The Judge’s snuffbox?” Holmes ventured. He phrased it as a question, but I knew the man well enough to realize he had already figured out the answer, although I had no idea under the heavens how he had managed it.

Lestrade glared at Holmes. He didn’t like having his opportunity to surprise my companion stolen from under his nose.

“Do you know something about this case, Mr Holmes?” he asked suspiciously.

“I only provide what would be the most obvious answer to your very leading question,” said Holmes with false modesty. I noticed he had not answered Lestrade’s question, and let myself feel a moment of pride. I would not have picked up that detail before my attachment to the great detective had begun.

“Right. Now that you’ve had your little fun at my expense,” grumbled Lestrade, and he went on. “Since then, we’ve had reports of several similar incidents,” Lestrade went on. “We’ve looked for connections among the victims. But we can find none, beyond that they’re all based in London and all relatively wealthy — many people of that description know each other. But it’s not enough of a connection to predict who might be targeted next.”

Holmes’s eyes were unfocused, and he was tapping his long, bony forefinger against the fingers of his other hand, as if ticking off an internal list. 

“Tell me about the safe break-ins,” he said at last. “In what ways were the safes defeated?”

“That’s another strange thing about it, Mr Holmes. It led us astray for quite some time. The safes were unharmed, so we assumed the burglaries had to be inside jobs. Someone must have used the keys to open them. After all, safes these days are uncrackable.”

Holmes smiled in a patronizing way and shook his head.

“My dear Lestrade,” he said. “If a man can invent a lock, another man can invent a way to defeat that lock. It’s an axiom of crime, and I’m surprised you do not know it.”

“Mr Holmes, I’ve spoken to many people knowledgeable about safes over this matter. And to a man, they insist that today’s high quality safes are uncrackable.”

“Tell that to Alfred Charles Hobbs,” Holmes said.

“Who’s that?”

“He cracked a so-called uncrackable lock, the Chubb Detector lock, during the Great Exhibiton of 1851.”

“Look on my works, ye burglars, and despair,” I said.

Holmes smiled at me. “Yes, Watson. That is a bit before your time, though, is it not?”

“My father collected Dickens’s serialized works,” I told him. “As a young man, I laid my hands on his copies of the _Bleak House_ serials, published starting in 1852. The Chubb Detector Lock was so advertised therein.” 

I frowned. I was unaccountably annoyed to learn that the lock had been picked before any of the _Bleak House_ serials had even been published. It was as if yet another certainty of my childhood had now been lost.

Holmes waxed didactic. “The Detector was a lever that rendered the lock unusable if any of the its standard levers was moved too far out of position. Chubb, in his patent, explained, ’In this state the lock is what I call detected, and the possessor of the true key has evidence that an attempt has been made to violate the lock, because the true key will not now open it.’ The lock could be reset using a separate regulating key. A genius-level invention, to be sure. But for every genius lock-inventor, there is a genius lock-defeater.”

Lestrade was unconvinced. “That was thirty years ago. I’m sure an improved lock has been invented.”

“Indeed it has. By Alfred Charles Hobbs. A founder of the company currently known as Hobbs, Ashley & Fortescue. He invented a lock he called the Protector.”

“Well, then. Chubb’s locking mechanism wasn’t impregnable, but Hobbs’s improvement surely is.”

“No again, Inspector. In 1854, one of Chubb’s locksmiths was able to crack the Protector lock. Do you begin to see my point now?” 

Inspector Lestrade scrubbed his hand across his damp hair and wrinkled his ferret-like face. 

“So we might have a lock-picker on our hands after all,” he muttered. “Dash it all. Now you’ve made the case even more complicated, Mr Holmes.”

“But at least you’ll be looking under the right streetlamp now, Inspector.” 

“What the devil do you mean? Streetlamp?”

“Surely you’ve heard the old joke about the drunk and the streetlamp.”

“Can’t say I have,” Lestrade grumbled.

Holmes folded his hands in his lap, looking for all the world like a student about to recite. 

“A man came upon a drunk searching the ground under a streetlamp,” he said. “He asked the drunk what he was looking for. 

Holmes dropped effortlessly into the speech of a lower-class Londoner. “‘Me spect’cles,’ said the drunk. ‘I dropped ’em cross t’street.’

“‘If you dropped them across the street, my man, why on Earth are you looking for them here?’

“T’ light’s better ’ere.’”

Holmes unfolded his hands and, with a small, smug smile, picked up his tea cup once more.

Lestrade groaned. “Very funny, Mr Holmes. Can you help me with this case?” 

“I have some ideas I shall pursue,” said Holmes, picking up his pipe. “Come by again to-morrow and I shall be able to assist you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes brought me along on his occasional visit to his brother, Mycroft. 

“Given the crowd you sit with,” said Holmes to Mycroft, taking a minute sip of the glass of port that had been set before him, “even though you’re all antisocial monsters, you’re _wealthy_ antisocial monsters and most of you can’t resist an odd puzzle, eh? I wager you have some inside information about the recent rash of safe-crackings.”

“Indeed we are and I have. Let’s see what you make of this, Sherlock,” said the spy-master, settling his bulk in one of the comfy chairs of the Diogenes Club’s visitors’ room. (No conversation was allowed in any of the other rooms.) 

I was tempted to remark on the sparseness of the Christmas decoration in the room. There was a single pine cone at each end of the mantelpiece, and a bowl with three glistening balls—one red, one green, and one silver— on one of the occasional tables.

However, I kept my mouth shut. Mycroft had always intimidated me a little.

“Four club members have been burgled,” Mycroft went on. “If you use the strict sense of the word. Their houses have been entered — they all swear these incidents could not have been ‘inside jobs,’ as their servants had no access to the safe keys or combinations. Their safes — some of the best safes money can buy — have been cracked as if they were nothing but two-week-old eggs. Very particular things have been taken, but that’s not the odd part.”

“Things have been _left.”_

“Indeed.”

“What kinds of safes?”

“Both Chubb and Hobbs.”

“No other models? Very interesting,” remarked Holmes. He turned to me. “Watson, you probably realized when I was speaking to Lestrade earlier, the two companies are fierce rivals. There’s long been debate about which type of lock, Detector or Protector, is superior.” 

“In that case, I can see why Lestrade is reluctant to release information to the public,” I said. “This crime wave makes it seem as though neither kind of lock does what it’s advertised to do.”

“Indeed it does,” said Holmes. “That suggests a motive, does it not, Mycroft?”

“It would suggest one, if a particular company’s products were targeted...” Mycroft said. Instead of finishing his sentence, he gestured at his brother, as if this were part of a comedy routine they practiced.

“...and if one company can think up a way to discredit its rival, another company can think it up too,” Sherlock Holmes supplied.

“Are you suggesting that both Chubb and Hobbs deliberately hired safe-crackers to break into the other company’s safes?” I cried.

“That’s one interpretation,” said Sherlock. “But...” he gestured at Mycroft.

“What two rival companies can think up, a third company that’s a rival to both of them can also think up,” finished Mycroft. 

I groaned. “How shall we ever sort through the possibilities?”

I expected one or both of the Holmeses to say something akin to, “Don’t worry your thick head about that, Doctor. The great minds are afoot.”

Instead, Sherlock looked at Mycroft, Mycroft gestured at him, and Sherlock said, “Fortunately, we don’t have to.”

Mycroft nodded sagely in agreement.

For the remainder of our visit, they refused to say anything more on the subject.

~~~

Holmes was mostly silent in the carriage on our way back to 221B Baker Street. He looked out the window, but I sensed he was not as keenly attuned to the city life around us as he usually was. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, but our long association had taught me not to interrupt his trains of thought.

“You must wonder, Watson, why I do not see my brother more often,” Holmes said after we had climbed the stairs to our apartment. 

I confessed that I had.

“Growing up with an older brother who shared my keen intellect and even surpassed it was a great joy,” he said. 

I had heard him talk about joy so rarely in relation to himself that I found myself quite riveted.

“It was also a terrible trial!” he told me. “We shared, along with great intellect, an intensely competitive nature. There was scarcely a moment when we were not contending, striving to best each other. He was lazier, but he was also more clever. My victory was never sure.”

“Do go on,” I urged, handing him his Meerschaum and his tobacco slipper.

Holmes took his time setting up his smoke just the way he liked it. He took a puff and groaned in pleasure.

“Because of the striving between us, I was relieved when he went away to Oxford. I wanted the respite, and the chance to rule as the brains of the family. My pleasure lasted appropriately one week.”

“What occurred to thwart it?”

“I learned for the first time how lonely it is to be the only great mind in one’s environs.”

I was used to my friend’s making such statements. For him, they were not boasts, but the simple truth. “Then why did you not cling all the more to Mycroft, when next you were able to be near him?”

“I did. We did. It was sweet for a time. How we tormented those around us! But it soured. We were too much alike. You saw it back at the Diogenes Club. We can finish each other’s sentences eight times out of ten.”

“It was utterly remarkable, Holmes!”

“For all that a vain man enjoys looking in the mirror,” said Holmes, “eventually he wants to find someone else to admire him.” He briefly glanced at me, through his eyelashes, without raising his head from his task of preparing another bowl of tobacco.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade sat upon the chair I offered him, and stretched his legs out, angling the soles of his boots toward the hearth. He expansively placed his hands behind his head, his elbows jutting out to the sides. I was tempted to drape him with tinsel. 

“You are the very model of self-satisfaction today, Inspector,” remarked Holmes.

“I reckon I deserve to feel a tad smug today, Mr Holmes. The safe-cracking case that’s been plaguing us for weeks is now all but wrapped up.”

Holmes darted a sharp look at me from under his brows. 

“I congratulate you indeed, Lestrade. And I take it you are here to share the details of your victory with me? Pray do.”

Holmes also stretched his feet toward the fire, adopting an attitude almost identical to Lestrade’s. I found the effect very comical and couldn’t prevent a small smile from appearing on my face, but I hid it the best I could.

“Apparently despite our efforts to keep the crime wave hidden, word has gotten out in certain circles,” began Lestrade. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that, Mr Holmes?” He cast a gimlet eye at my companion. 

“You ‘don’t suppose’ correctly, my dear Inspector,” replied Holmes complacently. “Trust me when I assert that such goings on would be noticed in such circles, even without my prompting. These are people who care a great deal about their secrets and treasures.”

“Well, that’s of no consequence,” went on Lestrade. “A certain man of quality came to us at Scotland Yard. He said he had purchased a Chubb safe before he’d heard of the crimes, and now he was concerned that his safe would be targeted by the safe-crackers. We used the opportunity to set up a little trap.”

“Very clever! Do go on.”

“We made it be known that the safe contained the will and treasure of a wealthy philanthropist. The treasure consisting of a quantity of fine diamonds. The will would be read and the treasure distributed to his inheritors upon the morrow. Then we secreted ourselves in his house to wait.

“Scarcely had it struck midnight when a window on the ground floor was jimmied open and a burglar dressed all in black crept in.

“We could have arrested him then and there, but we waited to see if he would try to access the safe. And so he did. Furthermore he had brought with him and was making use of a plethora of safe-cracking tools — picks and spinners and whatnot.

“We knew then that we had our man, Mr Holmes, and we wasted no time taking him into custody. 

“Of course he’s claiming to know nothing of the other crimes. What’s even more ridiculous, he’s claiming he was hired specifically to break into this safe. But we’ll have the truth from him soon enough, when he realizes what his fate will be if he continues to play innocent of the crime wave.”

Lestrade unfolded his arms from behind his head and sat forward on his chair, gazing triumphantly at Holmes. “What do you think of that, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes did not answer right away. He continued to lounge, gazing into the fire.

“Did he succeed in opening the safe?” he asked.

Lestrade’s glance at him was suspicious. “No, we only needed to see him at work with his tools to establish his intentions. We arrested him before he opened it.” 

“I see,” said Holmes in a deceptively non-chalant manner. He let a few seconds elapse and then he added, “Did he have a snuffbox with him?” 

“Not that we found,” admitted Lestrade. “But, my man, he was caught trying to break into one of the brands of safe that are being targeted!”

“We shall see, then,” said Holmes.

“What do you mean by that?” cried Lestrade archly.

“We will know soon enough whether the safe-cracker you caught is the perpetrator of all these crimes. If so, the crimes will cease. If not, they are likely to continue.”

“And what is your theory, Mr Holmes, if it’s not that this man is the serial safe-breaker?”

“My theory is that we are seeing the workings of at least two different men,” Holmes said, “with variant taste in snuff-boxes. The question remains, however: What are their motives?”

~~~

Readers of my little narratives will know that Holmes did not include me on every aspect of his cases. At the time, I only knew that Holmes had appeared to drop this case. It didn’t occur to me to wonder about it, because Lestrade had claimed the case was solved. For all that Lestrade was often astray over his cases, on occasion he came to the right solution on his own.

But I suspected that something was up when the safes began being delivered. Three of them. They were enormous and it took four strong men to carry each of them up the stairs.

And there they stood, taking up every inch of available space in our common room, for several days. I found other places to spend my time during these days, and whenever I did cross the common room on my way in or out of my bedroom, I found Holmes poking and prodding at the safes.

On the third day, I accosted him.

“My dear Holmes, I do try to be patient when you use our apartments for research and experimentation,” I reminded him, “But I hope I will not have to inch past these monstrosities to reach my bedroom for too much longer.” 

Holmes, whose entire head had been inside the largest of the safes, sat up and gave me an apologetic look.

“How I tax you, my faithful friend,” he said warmly. “I give you my word that this aspect of the experiment will not last much longer.”

“It might be more tolerable if I knew what you were looking for,” I confessed.

“Come here,” said Holmes. Soon we were both sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the largest safe. “This is a new model of Chubb safe,” he explained. “The one near your desk is an older Chubb model, and the one behind my armchair is a Hobbs. Now, take this magnifying-glass and look at the back panel, its lower-right corner.”

I did so.

“A series of numbers and letters is stamped there,” I said.

“That is the serial number of this individual safe,” said Holmes. “The others also are individually marked inside.”

“Why does that matter?” I said, perhaps a little brusquely, because my back was beginning to hurt from the awkward position I had to assume to use the magnifying glass inside the safe.

“What do you know about the hobby of safe-cracking and lock-picking?” asked Holmes.

“It never occurred to me that it was a _hobby,”_ I cried. 

“You will find amateurs engaged in most activites that are intricate and puzzling,” Holmes told me. “I am not the only man who needs mysteries and conundrums to invigorate myself. You are fortunate to be a medical man, Watson, for mysteries and puzzles and details are part and parcel of your profession, when you diagnose someone and follow them to see if your treatments are having a beneficial effect. Men of this type who do not have a profession, or those who are forced to engage in dull, routine labor, such as factory workers, must seek other ways to enliven themselves. Hence, safe-cracking and lock-picking are hobbies for some.”

“I am fascinated, Holmes,” I said. “Did you buy these safes to learn how to crack them?”

“No, I did not,” Holmes said. “That knowledge takes decades to acquire, and just as musicians are more likely to be skilled upon their instruments if they start to learn them at a young age, the same goes for those who learn to open locks of this complexity. I would never be able to acquire more than the basic skill I already have with simple locks.”

I had rarely heard Holmes say that he was incapable of learning something, and I found it so surprising that I had nothing to say in response.

“Amateur safe-crackers compete, you know,” Holmes said. “As do many people who engage in social hobbies.”

“That stands to reason,” I told him.

“One thing I am trying to learn,” said Holmes, “is how safe-crackers prove to each other than they have been able to open a particular safe.”

“The serial numbers!” I cried.

“Yes, Watson! I now believe that a cracker opens the safe, notes the serial number, and tells it to the judge, who maintains a list of the serial numbers of particular models.”

“I would say I am amazed that you’ve figured that out, Holmes, but I know your methods, and you have told me time and again that they are nothing to be amazed at.”

Holmes made a sour face. “Whenever you say that, I think perhaps I’ve told you a little too much about my methods.” Then he favored me with one of his rare wide smiles. 

I felt a frisson of pride, that this singular man had befriended me.

“I am still unclear on one point, Holmes,” I said.

Holmes raised his eyebrows invitingly. “Yes?”

“How does the judge get the list of the serial numbers?”

“Very good question, Watson!” cried Holmes. “The safe manufacturers of course keep records of them. They know to whom each safe has been sold.”

“So the safe-cracker clubs steal the lists?”

“Perhaps that is how it happens sometimes,” Holmes agreed. “But I suspect that more often, they are provided with the lists by the companies themselves.”

“Holmes! Why?”

“As a check on the quality of their products,” Holmes said. “If the safe-cracker clubs are easily able to breach a particular model, they know that they need to work on a more secure design.”

“Why do they not simply hire safe-crackers to work on safes in their warehouses? Why encourage them to break into the houses where safes are located?”

“I suspect it is to get a better idea of how the safes are deployed,” Holmes suggested. “That would help them in designing new models. And in understanding the reasons why their safes sometimes fail to protect their owners’ valuables. After all, the most secure safe in the world is vulnerable if the owner keeps the key in the lock.” 

I laughed. 

The next evening, when I had returned from my rounds, all the safes were gone, and all the usual comforts of our common room were restored. The tabletop Christmas tree was even back, which surprised me, as Holmes had rather vociferously complained about it when I’d first set it up. I had had to resort to calling him a Scrooge. 

“I sent them back,” said Holmes. “They proved inadequate for my needs.”

~~~

Lestrade’s demeanour had considerably changed from his last visit.

“You don’t look well, Inspector,” I said, and quickly prepared him a glass of brandy. 

Instead of stretching out expansively before the fire, Lestrade now hunched over his lap in front of it. His sharp face was even more pinched and sour than usual. He took the glass and swallowed its contents in one gulp. I refreshed the restorative, but he did not drink more. The glass dangled in his boneless hand.

“Have you suffered a setback in some case of yours?” Holmes asked.

“Mr Holmes, don’t smirk at me so,” said Lestrade in a dull, angry voice. “You were right and I was wrong, but you needn’t make a laughingstock of me.”

“I assure you, I intend no such thing, Inspector,” Holmes said sharply, a little stung. “We have our differences of opinion and method, you and I, but over the years I’ve come to respect you as a detective and appreciate you as a friend. Come, tell us your troubles.”

Lestrade relaxed and revived a little. He took a sip of the brandy. 

“More safe-crackings and snuffboxes, Mr Holmes,” he sighed. “The burglar we arrested the other day is still in custody, so my case isn’t solved after all. In fact, it appears I’m back at square one.”

“Ah,” said Holmes, and he was unable to keep a hint of satisfaction out of his voice, although Lestrade didn’t know him well enough to notice it. “I believe we can be of assistance to each other. Do you have any former lockpicks or safe-crackers on your list of law-friendly contacts?”

“I do, Mr Holmes. But how does one use a lockpick to catch a lockpick?”

“One does not. One uses a lockpick to educate a would-be lockpick.”

“And who is that?”

“You are looking at him, Inspector.”

“Why do you want to pick locks, Mr Holmes?” Lestrade asked acerbically. “Solving crimes not interestin’ enough any more?” 

“Picking locks is frequently helpful in solving crimes,” Holmes pointed out. “However, I already know the skills. What I don’t know is the language. The jargon. I need to know how to pass myself off as a lockpicker to an actual lockpicker.”

“Ah. Undercover work,” said Lestrade, and laid a finger alongside his nose. 

~~~

I almost didn’t recognize Holmes as he came out of his bedroom. He was wearing the clothing of a middle-class businessman. I noted that the clothing was a little worn and seedy-looking. 

“Let’s go, Watson,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Diogenes Club.”

I was dubious. “Are they going to let you in looking like that?” I asked.

“Yes, Mycroft has told them I am expected. He frequently meets with people of the lower classes, in his line of work.”

I remembered Holmes describing Mycroft’s line of work to me once: 

“You are right in thinking that he is under the British government. You would also be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he _is_ the British government.” 

I supposed the British government might need to meet with seedy middle-class businessmen from time to time.

After we were settled in the visitors’ room, which was unchanged from our previous visit, except for the addition of a second bowl of glistening Christmas balls, Mycroft handed Holmes a sheet of paper. He showed it to me.

“It’s from Chubb,” I noted, observing the letterhead. “The model names, serial numbers, and purchaser records for several safes. How is this going to help you?”

“If you want to catch safe-crackers, you need to let them know where there are safes to crack,” Mycroft intoned. 

“Won’t the owners of these safes—“ I began, and then I saw 221B Baker Street listed as the address of one of the purchasers, under the name of Parker.

“Holmes! Are you going to buy _more_ safes?” I cried.

“No, Watson. This is a false record. I am a Chubb employee. I am going to the meeting of the amateur safe-crackers.”

“So you’re going to give this false record to the judge arranging a competition?”

“No,” he said. “I’m going to ‘accidentally’ leave this false record behind to be found by members of the club who are interested in safe-crackings outside the boundaries of the official competitions.”


	4. Chapter 4

London had been blanketed with snow overnight, which was as yet unspoilt. The cheery brightness of the snow-reflected light that poured into our rooms was one of the joys an early winter’s day had to offer.

Over breakfast with Holmes, I opened the Events page of the newspaper and laughed.

“What is amusing you this morning, Watson?” Holmes asked, biting into a scone with a prodigious amount of lemon curd on it. He deftly caught a gobbet of the stuff that had tried to make its way onto his dressing-gown.

“There’s a notice about a snuffbox auction,” I told him. “With Lestrade coming over at all hours going on about snuffboxes, it caught my eye.”

Holmes tugged the top edge of the newspaper down to have a look. 

“That looks like a fascinating event,” he remarked. “Shall we go, dear Doctor?”

“Holmes!” I cried. “I never knew you to be a collector of such things.”

“I am now, Watson. Because if you want to catch burglars, you can’t go wrong by letting them know you have something they want to steal.”

~~~

“Do you know which is the safe-cracker?” I asked Holmes _sotto voce,_ looking around at the event hall teeming with would-be buyers of snuffboxes. 

“I know a number of people who aren’t the safe-cracker,” he said. “But I’m not sure which of the remaining people might be.”

~~~

“Holmes!” I hissed, as he raised his auction paddle once again. _“Forty guineas?!”_

“I assure you that I will have enough left over to pay the gas bill, Watson.”

“Sold! To number 21, for forty guineas,” shouted the auctioneer. 

“That’s three. I hope you’re going to stop now,” I whispered, as the auctioneer announced a break. 

“I need to let any safe-crackers know that I’m a serious collector,” Holmes chided me. “Come, let us refresh ourselves.” 

In the lobby, Holmes stood near the Christmas tree—excessively decorated even to my taste—and spoke in a carrying voice about his new safe and his collection of snuffboxes, earning glares from several other patrons of the auction. I attempted to help with the charade by asking loud and foolish questions. 

“How did I do?” I whispered to him as the second half of the auction began.

“You played a silly hanger-on marvelously, dear Doctor. So different from your usual demeanour that I could scarcely believe it was you.”

He turned away to listen to the auctioneer then, leaving me slightly suspicious that he was teasing me.

~~~

Beginning at sundown, we were concealed in the curtained recess of the common room. There was no light visible in the apartments. We had a dark-lantern with us, its door shut. 

“How do you know it will be tonight?” I asked.

“I don’t. But we’ve had lights burning all night for the past five nights. If I were the safe-cracker, I would be eager to take advantage of the first night that the apartment is apparently unoccupied.”

The safe-cracker, though, seemed to have other ideas. We waited for hours in the dark, pressed together on the window seat, which was not quite large enough for two men of our size.

We did not converse much, for whenever I ventured upon a topic, Holmes would listen for a minute, reply curtly although not unkindly, and then hush me. 

The apartments began to grow a bit chilly. When Holmes noticed me shivering, he covered my hands with both of his and chafed them. 

Despite the chill, his hands were hot, for his body was burning with nervous energy. I felt warm again faster than I expected to.

Then we heard a metallic scraping at the front door. Far more quickly than I expected, I heard the door open. I knew it must be our safe-cracker, for no ordinary person could have picked the door lock so quickly.

Holmes drew his revolver from his jacket pocket.

We’d worked out this move in advance. He nudged me, flung aside the curtain, and I swiftly opened the door of the dark-lantern, brandishing it so as to temporarily blind the intruder.

It was all over with in a few seconds. The man dropped a pouch, which hit the floor with a heavy thud, and put up his hands.

Holmes moved to the front door, still training his revolver on the man. 

“Thank you for leaving my front door lock intact,” Holmes said. He closed and bolted the door. “Please move slowly and seat yourself in that chair.” He indicated the chair by the fire that I usually used. Holmes sat in one of the dining room chairs. 

When the intruder sat, Holmes lowered his pistol, but kept it in his hand.

“Watson, would you be so good as to light some lamps?”

I did so, and as the room became illuminated, I took in the intruder. He was perhaps in his late twenties, traces of youth still on his face in the curve of the cheek, but hints of the middle age to come in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, which were sharp and green and moved back and forth constantly. His nose was hawklike and his chin determined. He was slender and his body seemed never to be quite still. 

“Are you the person, or one of the persons, responsible for the safe-crackings and snuffbox swappings?” Holmes asked.

The man smiled wryly. “You have me, Mr Parker. I have cracked a safe and swapped a snuffbox.”

“Ah,” said Holmes. “Forgive me for giving you a false name. Sherlock Holmes, at your service. In a manner of speaking.”

“I feel better,” said the safe-cracker. “For a moment there, I thought some random toff had bested me. Now that I know it is London’s most famous detective, I can consider my honor intact.”

Holmes inclined his head. “This is my associate, Dr Watson.”

The man bowed. “Your chronicler,” he said. “My name is Archibald Ferrell. Now that you have caught me, what would you have of me? Will you turn me over to the police? What is to be my fate?”


	5. Chapter 5

“I would like you to tell me the story of your role in this cracking and pranking,” said Holmes. “Pray do not leave anything out.”

“Very well. May I smoke?” 

“Certainly. I shall join you.” Holmes put the revolver back in his pocket and picked up his pipe and slipper.

Ferrell produced a tobacco case and rolled a cigarette with the dexterity that a man with his hobby would certainly need. He lit it and drew in a lungful, then began his tale.

“Ever since I was a lad, I was obsessed with anything that was locked. My father would punish me every time I broke into his desk, his filing cabinet. My behind would be black-and-blue, and I’d be right back in his study or his library the next day. I couldn’t rest until I’d sussed out all the secret hiding places. I found his naughty postcards. His mistresses’ letters to him. The accounts of his gambling debts.

“I never told another soul of what I found, but Father knew I’d seen into his secrets, and it drove him mad. He tried leaving the locks in a state that would let him know whether I’d tried them. I’m sure you know the methods, Mr Holmes — leaving a hair in the lock and whatnot. He caught me a couple of times with these tricks, but I was soon wise to them. After that, he never knew for sure whether I’d broken into any of his hideaways. That drove him mad in a different way.

“He began hiding some of his secrets outside the house. I assume he kept his papers in bank vaults and the houses of friends. I didn’t care, you see. My challenge was to open the locks, and I did not care one whit what I found once I had done so.

“In the end, I think he came to know this. The tension between us eased, and I realized that my lock breaking worried him not so much for that activity itself, but because he thought I had urges toward blackmail.” 

Holmes broke in. “Blackmail does not appeal to you? It is why many people with your skills practice them.”

“I am a bachelor with simple needs. My father left me enough that I was and am able to meet them. I’m not a generally greedy person. Only when it comes to challenging my mental skills.”

“You remind me of myself in that respect,” said Holmes. “So tell me. How did you come to break into Judge Milbourne’s safe?” 

“One day at my club, Pringles, I was playing cards with a fellow called Bartley and a few other chaps. I was losing and I was about to quit the game, but Bartley offered to let me wager my ‘time and expertise,’ as he put it. I did, and I lost to him.

“Bartley called in the favor that very evening. He asked me to break into the Judge’s safe and steal a snuffbox in it. He also gave me a snuffbox and told me to leave behind. 

“Well I won’t say I wasn’t torn, Mr Holmes. It was a dangerous job. But he swore it was merely a prank and wouldn’t do anyone any harm. And I do so love the challenge of a Protector lock, especially when there’s a time constraint.”

“What happened then?” asked Holmes.

“I arrived at the Judge’s house at around ten o’clock. There was no problem about gaining entry. Bartley said that the back door was often secretly left unlocked so one of the maids could sneak out to meet her young man. That proved to be the case on the night I arrived.

“I heard and encountered no one. All the servants seemed to be in bed (or out on secret assignations). I quickly made my way to the Judge’s study, which was where it had been described to me. And with that I went to work. I don’t need much light to pick a Protector lock. It’s all in the senses of touch and hearing. 

“A leaky faucet in the adjacent bathroom nearly drove me mad. Water drops would ‘plop’ at the most inconvenient times as I was trying to hear the workings of the lock. I cursed Bartley many times as I struggled with the mechanism. But frustration is in the nature of the work. Part of its spicing, if you will. So none of that was out of the ordinary. 

“As usual, I got lost in the workings of the lock, and the hours passed swiftly. It was scarcely before the first glimmerings of dawn that I heard the satisfying _clunk_ that meant I’d defeated the safe. 

“I let the smallest sliver of light out of the dark-lantern I had carried with me and slowly swung the door of the safe open. 

“And Mr Holmes! What a disappointment met my eyes! The safe was empty.” 

“How did you feel then?”

“I’ve told you that my joy is in breaking locks and I don’t care what’s behind them. That was true in this case, except that the job I’d been asked to do also involved removing something from the safe. I was furious at Bartley.”

“Did you leave the replacement snuff box behind?” asked Holmes.

“Yes. I certainly didn’t want it. I wanted nothing to remind me of the whole affair.”

“I imagine you confronted him harshly when next you saw him,” remarked my companion.

“I certainly did, Mr Holmes. I was in a fine state when I came to Pringles the next day. Fortunately for the staff, only my favorite waiter came near me. All the rest of the staff know by now what to do when I strew eggshells around my person. If only the other members also knew. But they would insist on dropping in and using the room I was lairing in, waiting for Bartley.”

Ferrell rolled another cigarette, the movements of his fingers sharp with anger.

“Eventually, the benighted Bartley deigned to make an appearance. He saw me and must have noted my demeanor, for he hesitated several times before making his way over to me.

“He greeted me and then his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Did you get it?’ he asked. 

“I suspect the look I fixed upon him was quite unpleasant. ‘As I’m sure you know,’ I said, ‘what I got was a wild goose chase, and I’m none too pleased with your prank.’

“The fellow had the temerity to look shocked. When I was finally convinced that he hadn’t planned what had happened and didn’t know, I explained. And then, the gall of him, not only was he unapologetic, but he acted as if I were mistaken or prevaricating! 

“I really lit into him then. ‘Look,’ I told him. ‘You won the wager, a debt involves my honor, and I had no choice but to risk my liberty when you demanded it. But why lie to me? Why send me for the sake of opening an empty safe?’

“His face contorted into an expression half of bluster and half of embarrassment. ‘I swear I didn’t lie, Archie, old man,’ he insisted. ‘I passed on what Hidge told me.’

“‘Hidge isn’t imaginative enough to lie,’ I retorted. ‘So forgive me for not believing you, Bartley.’

“At that point, Mr Holmes, I saw that the only way I was going to get further intelligence out of Bartley was by using violence. This I was not prepared to do. Nevertheless, the issue rankled at me. I don’t like being played and used.” 

“And that is why you broke into Lord Breckenridge’s safe a few days later?” asked Holmes nonchalantly. 

Ferrell’s eyes went sharp and alert. “What are you talking about, man? I only broke into the Judge’s safe.”

Holmes yawned. “I understand your desire to protect your...reputation,” he said. “But I asked you for the whole truth. I know that you—perhaps you, yourself, didn’t breach Breckenridge’s safe, but—you were there the night it was forced. I would much prefer to hear the truth from your lips. I can conjecture, but I prefer facts and eyewitnesses. If I am forced to conjecture, I might end up inadvertently...damaging some concern you have.”

I was rather surprised to hear such words out of the mouth of my friend. I had heard threats of that nature from him only a handful of times in the course of my long career of chronicling his cases.

The stuffing seemed to go out of Ferrell’s body. And yet I discerned a brightness in his eye. My long association with Holmes had given me a few insights into the way people inadvertently reveal things about themselves in their facial expressions. (As a medical man, I was also used to discerning illness in part by looking in the face and especially the eyes.) I wondered what he might be concealing. 

“Very well,” he said to Holmes. “I see you’re way ahead of me.” Ferrell drew in a long breath and then continued his narrative.

“The day after my frustrating exchange with Bartley, I went to an auction. I’m sure you’re not surprised to hear I collect snuffboxes. I had my eye on a particular one. When the box came up for auction, I bid for a few rounds, but the price quickly ascended to nosebleed territory because Lord Breckenridge and another aristocratic gentleman got into a bidding war. These flush individuals clearly wanted what they wanted and didn’t care which antique dealers and less well padded collectors they put out of business by topping the sensible, profit-sparing bids with primogenitured ones. Lord B won the item.

“When the intermission came, I positioned myself near Lord B and his hangers-on. I had no particular motive for doing so, but I became interested when I heard him telling his audience about a new Chubb safe he’d purchased. It was unbreakable, he claimed proudly. Of course, every safe since the Creation of Man rendered protection against thievery necessary has been so described, at least by its purveyors.

“One of the hangers-on mentioned the model of safe I had broken into at the Judge’s, a Hobbs, Ashley, & Fortescue design. They have the Protector locks, you know. 

“‘Oh, I’m told this new safe is much superior to the Hobbs model,’ asserted Lord B. 

“‘The Hobbs model has never been picked,’ said the hanger-on. (He was ignorant. I was not the first to crack it, as anyone who keeps up on the gossip of safe-crackers would have known.) ‘How can the Chubb safe be better?’

“Lord B. blustered something about superior materials — clearly it had been put into his mind by a salesman. 

“‘Are you going to put your new acquisition in it?’ someone asked him.

Lord B laughed. “Who stores a snuffbox in a safe?”

“‘One who paid sixty guineas for the snuffbox,’ retorted a wag in the group.

“‘You have a point, there,’ said Lord B. 

“Soon the bell rang to signal the start of the second half of the auction. 

“Well, I confess, Mr Holmes, I made up his mind to visit both the snuffbox and the safe when next I heard Lord B would be out of town. And indeed, I so learned when I stopped by a club Lord B. belongs to the next day. I was dropping something off for a friend. A gossip accosted me as I was waiting. 

“‘Gone for some time, I’m told,’ said the gossip. ‘Taking most of his household staff as well. It’s a good thing the news won’t spread farther than this club. No member _here_ would stoop to thievery, but imagine if some low-lifes got hold of the information!’

“‘That would be dire,’ I suggested. And we both walked off in opposite directions, shaking our heads. The gossip, at the depravity of the common people; and I, at the blinkered stupidity of a surprising number of gentlemen.”

Holmes let out a small chuckle.

“I waited until the wee hours to break into Lord B.’s townhouse,” Ferrell went on. “Only two of the staff were staying on, but I still had to be careful, and that meant carrying minimal means of illumination. 

“The office that contained the safe was all the way on the second floor at the back of the house. I hoped I would not be discovered, as escape would be very difficult from this room.

“I admit I momentarily wished I’d brought a pistol. But then I thought better of it, and reminded myself of my principles. I am an amateur. What I do is a hobby. A dangerous hobby, for me, but I refuse to do harm to others by practicing it. A pistol would only increase the possibility of harm without reducing the danger to me—indeed, if used, it would certainly put my liberty in even greater danger. 

“But once I found the room and the safe, I forgot about all this, having entered the happy state that conquering a new type of lock opens to me. I am of course familiar with the general principle that governs most Chubb locks, but I had to discover whether this lock had any material improvements.” 

Ferrell went silent. But many expressions were chasing each other across his face, so he clearly was not finished thinking about the story, even if he’d stopped telling it.

“Pray continue,” said Holmes patiently.

“That’s all there is to tell,” replied Ferrell, his hands nervously toying with a fresh cigarette. “I opened the safe, and went home.”

Holmes let a pregnant silence hang for quite some time, as he smoked his pipe.

“That won’t do, you know, Mr Ferrell,” he said at last. “I explicitly asked you not to leave anything out. Perhaps I should have added ‘or anyone’.”

He raised his eyes languidly to his captive.

I had been witness to many such moments in Holmes’s interviews, in which the great detective revealed that he knew his subject was lying or omitting some truth. Usually, confronted by my companion’s certainty, the poor subject would capitulate and out would come the rest of the story. 

Ferrell, however, was made of stronger stuff. He did not look Holmes in the eye. His face remained fixed upon the fire. But there was steel in his voice when he insisted quietly, “I’ve told all I am able to tell.”

Holmes took his pipe out of his mouth. 

“Protecting someone, I see,” he said. There was a hint of something in his voice that I had not heard there often. 

Ferrell said nothing.

A ring was heard upon the bell. Presently I heard three sets of feet making their way up to our apartment. I recognized the tread of Lestrade, a lighter step, and a heavier one.

“Watson?” Holmes said. “Please open the door to our guests.”

He had taken his pistol out again and was holding it loosely trained upon Ferrell. 

“I intend no harm,” Holmes reassured both of us. “I wish only to be prepared. Pray do not rise, Mr Ferrell, no matter who appears at the door.”

I opened the door.

There was Lestrade, as I had expected. 

His hand was firmly clasped on the upper arm of a handsome, young man of perhaps four-and-twenty. Of slightly below average height, he had a cleft chin, flexible mouth, and curly black hair peeking out from under a flat cap. 

Accompanying them, to my utter astonishment, was Mycroft Holmes.

As the young man in Lestrade’s grasp took in the room, his eyes widened and his face took on an expression of such passion, I had scarcely seen its like in all my years. With one strong movement, he wrenched himself free of the inspector. 

Only to freeze as he saw a swift gesture from Ferrell. 

Ferrell, momentarily forgetting himself and Holmes’s order, tried to stand. But Holmes swung his gun arm in a wide arc intended to arrest Ferrell’s attention. It worked, and the safe-cracker froze, then sank back into his chair. 

“I say, Holmes,” objected Lestrade. “Why all the gun-waving?”

“It is merely a precaution,” Holmes told him. He uncocked and unloaded the pistol and placed it back in his pocket. “Crisis averted,” he claimed. “Pray, gentlemen, be seated. Watson, if you would be so good as to bring a tray with spirits? I think our guests could use a mood stabilizer.”

Once I had supplied each with the spirits of his choice, Holmes turned to the newcomer. 

“I have found out a great many things about this case,” he said cordially, “but your name is not among them. Are you willing to share it with us? I assure you that it will go no further than this room.”

Lestrade objected. “I’m not willing to agree to that,” he said. “If this man you instructed Mycroft and me to catch has to do with my case, his name is going to have to be part of the public record, the same as any criminal’s.”

“I believe you will be willing to accede to my wishes,” Holmes told him, “when you hear the whole tale. But I formally note that as of now, you have not so agreed. Is your currently anonymous companion still willing to tell of his safe-cracking and snuffbox adventures?”


	6. Chapter 6

The young man had been sitting rigidly upon one of the dining room chairs. He seemed to make up his mind about something, and his body relaxed. 

“My name is Clifford Babington,” he said. “You’re wanting to hear about my safe-cracking of late? Very well. It all started when I heard about the man with the proposal.”

“Man? Proposal?” asked Lestrade.

“He was hanging about outside the club meeting one night.”

“Club meeting?” asked Lestrade again.

Babington looked surprised, as if he’d thought his captors better informed. He compressed his lips suddenly.

Holmes interrupted. “Never mind that, Inspector. He’ll have sworn a vow of silence about it, and it doesn’t particularly matter to the case at present.”

Lestrade frowned. “I’ll not have you tell me how to run my case,” he objected. But, seeing Holmes’s quelling look, he relented. “But we can continue for now.”

“I don’t mind admitting I’m a little hard up, gentlemen,” Babington went on. “I got to town recently and I haven’t had the wherewithal or luck to keep ends meeting. Things were getting a bit desperate. So when I heard about the man, I went ahead and met him.”

Babington dug in his pocket. Lestrade tensed, but he only brought out a small trinket — a snuffbox, I realized. I thought he would indulge, but he only fidgeted with the item as he continued. 

“We met in a pub,” Babington went on. “He told me to break into this Judge Milbourne’s safe and bring away something that would prove I’d done it. I asked why I couldn’t just bring him the serial number. He said because having something taken would bother Milbourne enough that he’d try to get help about it, and that’s what he wanted, for Milbourne to go to the police or a detective. He gave me some money and said he’d give me some more when I brought him the proof. “I didn’t know why he wanted to bother the Judge in that way. But I didn’t care. I just wanted the money, and it sounded as if I had a choice about what to take, and I figured I could take something that wouldn’t do the man terrible harm to lose.”

“So you broke into Milbourne’s safe and took the snuffbox,” said Mycroft, contributing to the conversation for the first time.

Babington nodded. 

“But you did not give it to the man you met in the pub. Why not?” asked Holmes.

Babington shook his head. “I tried to. We met again, but he didn’t want the snuffbox. He said he’d already heard the judge had gone to the police, and that was all that mattered.”

“Did he pay you the rest of your fee?”

“Yes.”

“And then he asked you to break into Lord B’s safe?”

Babington opened his mouth and drew breath as if to speak, then closed his mouth again. He looked hard at the floor for a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “I asked him if he had more work for me. He said there was another job, but it was a different model of safe and he thought I’d not be able to do it.”

Holmes looked dubious. “I’m sorry, Mr Babington, but your story doesn’t add up. If you did not turn over the snuffbox to your employer and you did not break into Lord B’s safe, how did the judge’s snuffbox end up there?”

Babington turned pale, but continued to stare at the floor and say nothing.

“May I venture a guess at what really happened?” Holmes said.

Both Ferrell and Babington made protesting noises.

Holmes looked at Lestrade. “Inspector, please leave the room.”

Lestrade puffed up to maximum size. “I will not, Mr Holmes! These are my prisoners. I have them both on safe-cracking.”

“That’s why I am asking you to leave the room. Each has confessed to safe-cracking, and you do not need to hear any further details to pursue your case.”

Lestrade glowered. 

“I don’t like to bring debt into this, Inspector,” said Holmes implacably, “but I’ve helped you on a number of cases and allowed you to receive the credit. If that means anything to you, then I pray you allow me this indulgence.”

Lestrade saw he was defeated. He rose to his feet, his face still stormy. “Very well, Mr Holmes. I shall retire to Dr Watson’s bedroom, and I give my word I will not attempt to eavesdrop, if you give your word that you will not allow these men to escape.”

“You have my word, Lestrade.”

The Inspector left.

Holmes looked each of his captives in the eye. “And both of _you_ have my word,” he told them, “that neither I, nor Mycroft Holmes, my brother here, nor my companion Dr Watson will hold against you anything we hear in the conversation I now hope we will have. Are you now willing to speak — or if not to speak, to listen and tell me if I have gone astray?”

The men now looked each other in the eye for the first time since Babington had been brought in. And that look seemed to nourish each of them, for color rose in their cheeks, and they even smiled.

“Yes, Mr Holmes,” said Ferrell. 

“I, too,” said Babington.


	7. Chapter 7

Holmes’s face took on an expression of satisfaction. He set about lighting a pipe. I took a moment to top up my glass, and Mycroft’s. Neither of the young men had touched their drinks, but now each took a small sip.

“Once upon a time,” Holmes began, “there were several companies specializing in high-security safes. Two of them were much larger than the others, and had very high reputations. The other companies wished to reduce their fortunes. 

“What would be the best way to go about this? Why, to provide evidence to the public that their safes were easy to crack. And how to collect such evidence? Get some safe-crackers to work for them.

“They didn’t want to use criminal safe-crackers. That might bring too much of the wrong kind of attention to the jobs — if the criminals stole immensely valuable things from the safes, if they were caught and investigated, the involvement of these companies might come to light. Fortunately, they knew that amateur safe-crackers existed, who enjoyed breaking into safes for the intellectual puzzle of it, and who were unlikely to use the opportunity to carry off the safe owners’ entire fortunes.

“A representative of one of these companies contacted you, Mr Babington, as you’ve already related.” 

Babington nodded.

“And, Mr Ferrell, your gaming companion was contacted by another.”

Ferrell sat up with a start. “I knew there was something fishy about Bartley’s demanding that favor of me!” he cried. “Especially when the safe turned out to be — but wait a minute, Mr Holmes. Why did the company contact both of us to break into the same safe?”

“I believe two different companies happened upon the same method of damaging the reputation of the industry leaders,” Holmes said. “Unfortunately, the two companies were working from the same list of safe owners, and their representatives each picked the same name from the list.”

Holmes paused to puff at his pipe.

“This is speculation so far, you understand, gentlemen. I am confident I will be able to prove it in time, however.

“So, to continue. You were both, independently, asked to break into Judge Milbourne’s safe. Mr Babington, you got there first, and took the snuffbox you found there as proof. Mr Ferrell, when you broke in the next night, the safe was empty. How does my story sound so far?”

Babington and Ferrell cast glances at each other. They tried to be surreptitious, but we all saw them.

“It’s plausible,” said Ferrell cautiously, and Babington nodded.

Now my story shall partake even more of the fictional arts,” said Holmes. “But there can be much truth in fiction. You will, I hope, tell me if I hit close to the mark.”

He steepled his fingers and stared off into the far distance.

“Mr Ferrell, you went to an auction, hoping to be able to win a particular snuffbox. As you arrived early, you perused the collection, and you ran into — quite possibly literally — another man doing the same thing. (For why would you speak to a man you did not know, unless you had stumbled against him?)”

The eyes of both men widened as Holmes related this portion of his tale.

“Two such discerning connoisseurs would surely have much to say to each other with regard to the provenance and quality of the snuffboxes being offered. And, I suspect, two men who are not the heirs to family fortunes, and as yet too young to have achieved pecuniary comfort, might have some things to say to each other about the many factors that go into determining the winning bids at auction of handmade objets. Did your conversation go in that direction, gentlemen?”

It was Ferrell who blurted, “The snuffbox was not worth a _fifth_ of what Lord B paid.”

Babington said, “But you were right — it was exquisite.”

“It was very much to my taste,” said Ferrell. The conversation fell along easy cadences, as if they’d had it before. “Taste and quality don’t always exactly align. I had so hoped that the box’s flaws — which were, to my mind, charming — would render it affordable.”

“But that’s not how it turned out,” said Babington.

Then they both abruptly shut up, as if suddenly remembering they had an audience.

“Ferrell, I am going to speculate that you did not know your newly met companion was also a safe-cracker,” said Holmes.

“I did not!” Ferrell said, turning to look at Babington with an exasperated but affectionate expression. “The little sneak kept it from me. He even stood there looking fascinated as I explained to him the implications of what Lord B was saying about his safe, during the break.”

Babington blushed prettily. 

“I shall continue my story,” Holmes went on. “The newly met friends were fed up with the auction, for it only served to remind them of how little money they had to spare on what they wanted. But they did not want to part. So they repaired to a nearby pub to drown their sorrows in a pleasure that was to be had for pennies, and not guineas.”

Ferrell and Babington nodded.

“Perhaps, Ferrell, you subtly introduced the subject of ethics. It must have been on your mind, knowing as you did that Lord B would store his snuffbox in a place to which you had access, and feeling tempted to deprive him of it.”

“By the Devil, Mr Holmes, were you eavesdropping on us?” cried the young man.

“I was not,” said Holmes. “I merely imagine what a man fixed upon something might bring up in conversation, when in the company of a new friend who seemed to share so many of his views on life.”

Holmes relit his pipe and puffed.

“To continue, I must split my narrative,” he said next. “First I will follow Mr Babington. Later that night, he met with his employer, the representative of the safe company. He was told to keep Judge Milbourne’s snuffbox. These portions of the conversation have already been related. But contrary to what you told us earlier, you were offered the job of breaking into Lord B’s safe, were you not?”

Babington nodded.

“And you saw an opportunity to…no, the metaphor about killing and stones is not quite suitable to the situation. Feed two birds with one worm, shall we say?”

Babington’s eyes shifted back and forth around the room nervously, but he said nothing.

“No matter. We will get to that later,” said Holmes. “First we will go back to Mr Ferrell. By now you had resolved your crisis of conscious, had you not?” 

“Once the gossip related to me that Lord B would be out of town, I made up my mind to break into the safe and take the box. I had come to think of it as mine. And it was a new type of safe for me. How could I resist?”

“How, indeed. Here is where my story stands upon a crossroads, gentlemen, and I know not which direction it takes. Which of you surprised the other in Lord Babington’s office?” 

Babington and Ferrell exchanged a long look. 

“It hardly matters for the sake of deniability,” said Ferrell to his friend. Then to the room at large he said, “Babington discovered me as I was trying to open the safe. Gasped behind me when he saw me from the doorway. My hairs will be prematurely grey from the shock of it, I am certain.”

The look he bestowed on Babington was one I had seen only rarely. I had seen it on my wife, directed at me, when I had thanked God for the loss of her treasure, which had brought her within my reach. 

The look on Holmes’s face as he watched this display was one I had never seen. 

“You did not expect to find him there?” Holmes asked Babington.

“In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised,” Babington said. “But I did not think of it. I had only one idea in my mind, and that was how I imagined his face would look when I presented him with Lord B’s snuffbox, after I’d retrieved it.” 

A rumble of laughter came from Mycroft. “Not to mention the kiss that would follow, eh?”

My mouth dropped open. Babington and Ferrell looked stricken. Holmes merely rolled his eyes, shook a finger at Mycroft, and said “Please ignore my brother. At times his mind gets stuck on a single track.”

Mycroft resumed his habitual sour, bored expression as if he hadn’t spoken at all. 

“He’s not wrong,” admitted Babington, and gave Ferrell back the look he’d received from him a moment earlier.

“Whose idea was it to leave Judge Milbourne’s snuffbox in Lord B’s safe?” asked Holmes.

“Babington’s,” said Ferrell, “after I told him about what I’d been required to do to pay my gambling debt.”

“And then it became a game between you,” Holmes went on.

“Anyone we discovered had both a safe and snuffboxes was fair game,” said Babington. “If one of us placed a box, the challenge for the other was to retrieve it and replace it with another.”

“Which of you was at the snuffbox auction that Mycroft arranged?”

“Mycroft?!” I blurted. “ _He_ arranged the auction?”

“Didn’t you know, my dear Doctor?” Holmes asked me in some surprise. “The newspaper announcement mentioned it was a charity auction sponsored by the Diogenes Club. I daresay Mycroft has used up most of the goodwill he’s garnered over the years from other members, by associating the club with such a public event.”

“They voted to kick me out,” affirmed Mycroft. “But a two-thirds majority is required to kick out a founder. And I have sufficient _intelligence_ on enough members that my detractors were unable to raise that many votes.” 

“I am so sorry!” I told him.

“Don’t be,” Mycroft rumbled. “This only means they will leave me alone, which is precisely the way I want it to be. I was becoming too popular in my own club.”

I laughed. “I’m sorry for interrupting, Holmes,” I said.

“I’m glad that point is cleared up for you, Watson,” said Holmes. “And now, gentlemen? Would you be so good as to enlighten me?”

“I attended the auction,” said Ferrell.

Holmes turned to Babington. “That’s what I thought,” he said, “Since, Mr Ferrell, you were the one who came to this address, and called me Mr Parker. And that means you, Mr Babington, must have been the one who came upon the paper I left at the Safe-crackers’ Club meeting, which had my brother’s address listed upon it, as well as my own.”

Babington opened his mouth in a perfect ‘O’. “That too was your doing?” he gasped.

“What paper?” asked Ferrell at more or less the same moment.

“You play this game independently, I see,” said Holmes. “What fun!”

“What do you mean, Holmes?” I asked, confused once again.

“Our safe-crackers are competing, rather than collaborating, in their game of swap-the-snuffboxes,” Holmes patiently explained to me. “So when Babington came upon the false record I left, he didn’t tell Ferrell. And Ferrell went to the snuffbox auction without Babington. Mr Babington, I presume this relates to your pecuniary circumstances.”

“Auctions just make me angry right now,” Babington confirmed. “When I’ve needed snuffboxes for the game, I’ve been getting them from second-hand shops.”

“Really?” said Ferrell. “You’ve found some that are quite nice!”

“That’s what I keep telling you, Archie,” said Babington with affectionate exasperation in his voice. “There are ways to obtain what you want without having to put up with the rich collectors who frequent auctions. Just because you grew up a toff doesn’t mean you can’t learn the ways of folks who are less well off. Surely you’ve broken enough conventions to know that by now.”

Then he silenced himself and looked around sheepishly. “Pardon me, gentlemen. We needn’t rehash our tiffs here.”

From the expressions on the Holmes brothers’ faces, it appeared they had both found the bickering adorable. As had I.


	8. Chapter 8

Holmes smiled indulgently. “I thank you for aiding me in telling my little story,” he said, “and I think I shall soon have no further need of your time. Also, as I promised, none of the…intimate details you’ve shared with the three of us shall leave this room. You need only submit to justice for the three safe-crackings you’ve already confessed to in front of Inspector Lestrade.”

He tapped out his pipe, having finished smoking it, and began to clean it.

“As for that justice, I believe I can negotiate an agreement that will leave both of you free, except for a nominal obligation,” he went on.

The two young men leaned forward with hope and interest in their eyes.

“If you promise to leave off your game now, and you also promise to aid Scotland Yard in any future encounters with safe-crackers that they might have, I believe I can convinced Lestrade to solve the case without accusing you. Would that be amenable to you? I note that it would probably also mean that your days in the safe-crackers’ club are numbered, for I doubt they are happy about their members collaborating with police in any way.”

“I am willing,” said Ferrell.

“As am I,” agreed Babington.

“Dr Watson and Mr Holmes,” Sherlock Holmes said, “Do you both opine that this is a reasonable agreement to make?”

“I do,” I said. “If the break-ins and swaps end, there will be no more harm done. There is a chance of some good coming out of it if they aid Scotland Yard. And it means two skilled and intelligent men will not waste any of their time in prison.”

“I agree with Dr Watson,” said Mycroft. “Furthermore, I wish to extend an offer of occasional employment to the gentlemen. I sometimes have need of their skills in my line of work.”

My companion rolled his eyes. “Why did that not occur to me earlier?” he said aloud. “In any case, I shall call Inspector Lestrade back into the room now.”

~~~

“I have only one point on which I would like clarification,” I told Holmes a few days later, after reading the newspaper article that credited the dogged Inspector Lestrade with breaking up a dangerous ring of safe-crackers, without mentioning the perpetrators of the crime wave. (“The details of the crimes, including the types of safes broken into, shall not be disclosed in this newspaper,” went the article, “for fear that others should be tempted into copying the methods used.”)

“What’s that, dear Doctor?” 

“You seemed unsurprised to discover the nature of the relationship between the two young gentlemen. How did you know they were lovers?”

“I didn’t know at first. But I suspected all along that more than one person was involved. There was a playfulness about the snuffbox-swapping that seemed like a game among two or more people. If it had only been one or two swaps, I might have considered it a prank, as Mr Ferrell’s gambling companion suggested, or a grudge and some kind of attempt at revenge. But when it continued…”

I admitted that made sense.

“My theory was largely confirmed when Mr Ferrell refused to tell the whole story about Lord B’s safe. Do you remember how he waxed in detail about the story leading up to the break-in, and then he suddenly said ‘then I went home’?”

“You said he was protecting someone.”

“Yes, and he was so fierce about it after I said so, that I was then sure. So, dear Doctor, tell me—What sorts of relationships do people have in which they want to protect another?”

“Family, friends, love relationships…”

“In some cases, business relationships,” Holmes added. “I wasn’t sure which it was—until Babington came in.”

“The look on his face!” I cried, remembering.

“Such _passion,”_ agreed Holmes. “The Italians have a phrase for that kind of love, you know. _Colpo di fulmine_ —the thunderbolt. There was no question that the feeling of Mr Babington for Mr Ferrell was as lightning slamming into the earth, and woe betide anything in its path.”

“I have rarely heard you speak of love, my friend,” I said, feeling deeply moved, “except to denigrate it. But now you wax poetic.”

“And likely you shall rarely hear me speak of it again after this morning,” Holmes said. “Know that when I take the seven per cent solution, or play the violin for hours on end, or sit motionless in front of the fire, or obsess myself with a case to the point of collapse, these extremities are in small part a substitute for speaking of it. Because speaking of it—well. I am afraid if I allowed it that much room in my mind, it would overcome me, and make me useless for anything else in this life.”

“But Holmes!” I cried. “It is not healthy to go about locking up such feelings.”

“I’ve never been a model of health, dear Doctor,” Holmes reminded me.

“I shall not speak of it again, since it is obviously what you wish,” I told my companion. “But know that I want to share something that has been so important in your life, for so long.”

“Perhaps you will know more some day,” Holmes said, and turned back to the newspaper.


End file.
